The Eight-Year-Old Mystery
by TYRider
Summary: Sherlock and John are on a case that leads to them breaking into a shady asylum. The propriator of which is suspected of running dangerous, abusive experiments and murdering his patients. They soon discover that things are worse than they thought when they find 8-year-old Ella. Will rescuing her be the end of it or will the 2 friends take on the challenge of raising her? No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: If you recognize it, I don't own it. Enjoy! Reviews are appreciated.**

Not two hours ago, Sherlock had worked it out, brilliant intellect piecing together the jigsaw that was their current case. A series of bodies had washed up on the banks of the Thames. Three men and two women of various ages and ethnicities. The only similarities were their gauntness, pale sun-starved skin made more ghostly in death stretched over almost skeletal forms. They had all been tortured to the point of death; subjected to electrocution, various medications, sensory deprivation, beatings, and systematic bone breaking. None of the bodies had been ID, no missing persons matched their descriptions. Whoever the killer was, he was smart. Only choosing victims that wouldn't be missed, never leaving anything on them to identify them or him, no signs of where the bodies had been for even Sherlock to pick up on. It was fascinating. It was frustrating.

But finally, brooding over a box of chicken lo mein that John had rather forcefully insisted he eat, the answer had presented itself. It was obvious. It was brilliant. Food forgotten, it only took a few quickly tapped out searches on John's phone to narrow down his search to one, find the information he wanted, and to procure an address. He yelled for John, slipped into his coat, and they were off.

Now they stood shoulder to shoulder in the shadows of an old, stately looking building that borrowed heavily from Georgian architecture. Backs pressed up against the rough bricks, they waited.

There. The creak of a door and the jingling of keys. One, two, three steps down, rubber soles slapping concrete stairs. Sherlock ventured to peer around the corner of the building. The facade and entrance were awash in the yellow light pouring out from the street lamps in the car park. A lone figure—male, mid fifties, tall, in good shape, clothes well made but not terribly expensive—hustled across the blacktop—narrow shoulders slumped, tired, workaholic—and got into a silver Mercedes.

"That's him?" John asked quietly, looking past Sherlock.

The Mercedes pulled out of the lot and soon disappeared.

Sherlock nodded. "Doctor David Lamb. Respected psychologist, faithful if rather indifferent husband, lover of crosswords, apparently." He sniffed haughtily.

"Sounds a bit dull," John remarked.

"And that's what makes him so interesting," Sherlock said. "Most would never suspect that he tortures and murders his patients. Sherlock's eyes were bright, full of that excitement that came with being so close to besting a really clever criminal. "Has been for years, judging my the callouses on his hands," he added.

John frowned, slumping back against the bricks again. "That's awful."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed his agreement. "Rather clever, too, you have to admit. The asylum already has all of the tools he could want. Medication is easily procurable as well. Even comes fully stocked with captive victims whose testimonies would never hold up in court. Not that any of them would make it to a court. He also has plenty of time to vet them, selecting only the ones that don't have anyone to miss them. There's also the disinterestedness of the staff and their high turnover rate."

John nodded, grimly understanding. "And being the man in charge, it wouldn't be any trouble to change documents. He could just erase his victims from the system," he said.

"Precisely. You know, the insane have often been victimized throughout history."

John shuddered and pushed away from the wall, cursing under his breath. "What are we waiting for?" he asked, scowling. "Let's collect some evidence so Lestrade can arrest the man."

Sherlock grinned, feral. "With pleasure."

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSH

After making their way around to the back of the building, scouring the face of it for some way to gain entrance. Most windows were barred and well out of reach. After a few minutes, John grabbed Sherlock's elbow and pointed upward. There was a small, unbarred window just above their heads.

Wordlessly, John jumped upward and latched onto the sill. Even with his bad shoulder, he was able to scramble up.

"Give me your coat," he hissed down at Sherlock, sitting on the thankfully wide windowsill.

The detective frowned. "No. Try the latch."

John rolled his eyes. "I already did, it's locked. Give me your coat."

"You need to learn to use lock picks, John."

"Haven't the time, Sherlock," John snapped. "It's a laundry room and it's empty. Just hand me your bloody coat."

Grudgingly, Sherlock complied, handing his coat up to John. John wrapped the coat around his fist and used it to quickly punch out the glass and brush away the shards.

"No damage," said John, unfurling the coat and dropping it down to Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled and shook out his coat, inspecting it for damage and stray pieces of glass. In the mean time John had disappeared through the window. Satisfied that his Belstaff was alright, Sherlock climbed up onto the sill himself and swung through the window with all the grace of a cat.

They were in a smallish room, one wall housed an industrial-sized washer and drier and the other had carts of laundry waiting to be washed. Broken glass glittered on the floor in the low light and crunched under foot.

"If you're quite finished with your bull in a china shop version of breaking and entering…" Sherlock said scathingly.

"Oh shut up. There's a murderer to catch, remember?" John replied.

With a final glare, Sherlock made for the door. Never one for being overly cautious, he threw open the door and stepped into the thankfully empty hall.

John rolled his eyes.

"Office is this way," Sherlock announced in an imperious whisper after a moment of examining the hallway.

"'Course it is," John mumbled, following after his lanky flatmate.

The resident patients of the mental hearth facility had long been asleep, locked in their rooms while Dr. Lamb was away and a skeleton crew loitered on the ground floor—they'd checked while making their rounds around the grounds. The two friends made their way through the building as quietly as possible. Sherlock led them to a stairwell and headed up two flights.

On the top floor, it didn't take the detective long to find the office they were looking for now that they were out of the residential part of the building.

"Observe, John," Sherlock drawled, dropping to one knee and pulling a set of lock picks out of his pocket and setting to work on the locked door. "See?" he said, standing and opening the door with a flourish. "Now, isn't that more efficient?"

John sighed, resolved not to give in and argue. "Time and place, Sherlock."

The detective humphed and entered the office.

"What exactly are we looking for?" asked John, going to examine a wall of mahogany bookcases.

Sherlock was already rummaging through the matching desk by the back wall. "Lamb has been getting away with murder for years. He's smug. We're looking for trophies or journal entries."

"What about notes?" John asked, frowning down at an unmarked book he'd pulled off of one of the shelves.

Sherlock looked up sharply from where he was rifling through the desk's drawers. "What?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"Medical notes," John repeated, flipping through the book with a dark look.

Sherlock was by John's side in an instant, snatching the book out of his friend's hands. "Of course!" he hissed with the same kind of annoyance he had whenever he missed something. "It's so _obvious. _He's been studying them."

John pulled another book off the shelf. It was full of the same kind of notes about patients, their conditions, the "treatments" used on them, and their reactions, etc. He grimaced at the details. "He thinks he's been treating them, experimenting on them for the sake of psychology," John said, disgusted.

Sherlock nodded. "This is more than enough to be going on with, I believe." He quickly grabbed the rest of the unmarked journals and pocketing them.

"You should text Lestrade," John said as they exited the office.

"I said we had enough to be going on with," Sherlock said, locking the door behind them. "I didn't say we had enough, yet."

"No. Whatever you're thinking, no."

"This is just writing in a book, easy enough to dismiss without hard proof."

"Sherlock." John's tone was warning.

"Evidence, John. You don't want Lamb to get off charges? You don't want him to keep hurting people, do you?" he asked, purposefully trying to manipulate John's sentimentality.

The doctor sighed, shaking his head a little. "Fine."

"Brilliant. Come along, John." Sherlock headed down the hall. "The most damning evidence can be found in the residential area, I believe."

They were nearing the end of the hall when the sound of footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs. The two friends froze.

"We have to hide," John whispered, turning around. "You check that side of the hall and I'll check this one."

Sherlock frowned. "Don't be ridiculous, John," he said. "We'll simply hide in the room farthest from the stairs. I'll pick the lock."

They ran to the opposite end of the hall. Sherlock picked the lock and they ducked into the room quickly, shutting the door behind them. The room was dark and had a claustrophobic feel to it.

"Ow!" John cried, falling over something he couldn't see and landing hard on the cold linoleum. "What is this stuff?" he asked, pulling himself up with the assistance of the thing he tripped over. "Sherlock," he said slowly, "I think this is a bed."

"Oh, don't be—" Sherlock cut himself off when he flipped on the light.

They were standing in a tiny, windowless room with sterile white walls and a floor that was equally white. There was a small twin bed covered in white sheets and no duvet to the right, which is what tripped John. The rest of the room was painfully featureless. To a mind like Sherlock's, one that craved data, it was like an affront to his senses and a challenge rolled in one.

"Recently painted," he remarked, putting a hand to the wall. "Two, maybe three days ago. Recently inhabited, too." Sherlock scanned the room for more information. His eyes narrowed as he zeroed in on the edge of the bed. "The occupant kept something they valued under there," he said, gesturing to a place where the paint on the metal bed frame had been worn away. "They checked on it constantly." He swept his coat out behind him and crouched down by the bed. Tilting his head to the side, he reached under the bed with one hand, feeling around the underside of the frame, and supported himself with the other.

John shifted uncomfortably on his feet, glancing nervously between Sherlock and the door. "Cut it out, Sherlock. Come on, we don't want to get caught."

With a look of triumph, Sherlock's deft hands lit upon a small, rectangular canvas that was tucked behind one of the supporting wooden slats under the bed. He tugged on it, confused when it wouldn't come free, and shifted his weight quickly so that he was lying on his stomach and could see under the bed. His gray-blue eyes widened. "It seems we already have been caught," he told John, eyes still fixed under the bed. "Hello there."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites! Enjoy!**

"What?" John asked sharply and shifting on his feet, head cocked a little to the side. "What?" he repeated. "You do know that mental illnesses aren't catching, right?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to give John a patented don't-be-an-idiot glare. "There is a child underneath this bed."

"What?" John folded his arms, squinting and scrunching his nose in disbelief.

"Is that the only word you know? Shut up. I'm trying to communicate," Sherlock growled before turning his attention back under the bed. "Like I was saying," he directed under the bed, tone significantly softer. "Hello, child." It was his sort-of-trying-not-to-scare-the-witness voice. "Come out from under the bed," he said a little more forcefully, patience quickly evaporating like water in a desert. "We aren't here to harm you. You must realize that I could easily drag you out from under here if that were in fact the case."

"You mean there's really a child under there?" John asked, tone part incredulous and part horrified. "You can't just talk to them like that, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, never removing his attention from under the bed. "That would be John. Now, will you _please_," he continued, saying the word as if it physically pained him, "come out from under the bed?" He sighed. "We're here to collect evidence so that the authorities can arrest Dr. Lamb not to molest or injure children. Perhaps you can even be of some use. Witnesses are usually beneficial as long as they aren't sniveling."

"Sherlock," John said warningly. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and pulled him back.

To John's surprise a little girl no taller than Sherlock's waist appeared, arms wrapped around her thin frame defensively. A wild, tangled mess of greasy blond curls pooled around her shoulders, spilling down nearly to her waist. A pale blue long sleeved dress hung on her loosely, at least two sizes too large and tattered around the edges. She stared up at them with emerald eyes too big for her pale face. Delicate, birdlike, haunted.

John flexed his hand, uncurling and recurling his fist, trying to keep his anger under control. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, observing and deducing detachedly.

"Hello," said John. Forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his concerned hazel eyes, he squatted down beside Sherlock to appear less threatening. "You alright?" he asked.

"Of course she isn't, John," Sherlock said roughly. "Psychological and physical damage is obviously extensive."

"Sherlock," John growled, giving his flatmate a glare before switching back into doctor mode and turning his attention back to the girl. "We won't hurt you. We're here to help."

Something flashed through the girl's eyes but she quickly smothered the emotion, backing away from them, toward the far wall. When they didn't move to follow her, she stopped at the wall and looked them over, green eyes serious beneath a pinched brow. "You're a doctor?" she asked finally, voice soft and gaze locked on John.

He blinked, surprised, and smiled a little more genuinely. "Yes," John answered slowly. He gave Sherlock a questioning sidelong look but the detective only shrugged slightly, frowning at the girl calculatingly.

"If Dave sent you," the girl said with a glance at the door, "he needn't have." Her arms tightened around her middle.

"Dr. Lamb beat you," Sherlock blurted as he observed the girl, evidence of his statement glaringly obvious to him. "You're hugging yourself in a defensive manner but you're ginger with your left side. So, bruised ribs. Possibly one or two cracked judging by the shallowness of your breathing. The purpling appearing on the skin around your collarbone hints at what is probably extensive bruising. No broken bones, though," he explained. "This time at least," he added, gaze pausing on her wrist.

The little girl's eyes widened slightly before narrowing. "I tripped down the stairs."

"If you're going to lie, at least make it plausible. Besides the fact that falling down a flight of stairs would never result in that pattern of bruising, it's obvious that you're familiar with Dr. Lamb. Familiar enough to call him Dave. Probably at his insistence with the amount of loathing you force into the syllable. We already know for a fact that he's a serial killer. Beating a child would hardly be beneath him at this point. Plus, given the proximity of your room to his office, I'd say you must be his special project. I highly doubt you could be under his 'care' and not suffer at least a few beatings. So, do not insult my intelligence with half-thought-out lies, child." Sherlock said before softening just slightly. "Not when we are trying to help you." He gave her a hawkish frown to make up for the slip of almost-sentiment.

To her credit, the child didn't shrink away at the harsh deduction. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson. So, was the beating punishment or routine?" he said flippantly.

"Punishment," the girl answered slowly. Another quick look over Sherlock's crouching form at the door beyond.

"For?" Sherlock prompted, holding a hand up to silence John.

"Escaping. I stole one of the orderly's hair pins and made it as far as the second floor before he caught me."

Sherlock's lips curled up in the hint of a smile. "See, John? Even this child can pick a lock better than you."

"Now that you know our names, what's yours?" John asked, ignoring his flatmate's jab.

Seeming to weigh her options, the girl hesitated. "Ella," she said like it was a painful admission.

John smiled again. "Lovely name. We're going to get you out here, Ella. And that…" John trailed off, trying to find a suitable adjective that was also appropriate for children to hear, finally settling on, "man will never touch you again. We've got enough for Lestrade to get a warrant, don't you think?" John asked Sherlock who nodded. "Come on, Ella, let's get you somewhere safe, yeah?" He and Sherlock both stood up. John offered his hand.

"No," Ella said forcefully, stepping away until her back was pressed up against the wall. She frowned at them. "No, I don't want to go."

John's face fell. "We can't leave you here. You're hurt, you need to get those ribs checked out, and we need to get you away from Lamb."

She shook her head, looking genuinely frightened.

"You must know that he eventually escalates to murder," Sherlock said almost casually, hands hidden in the pockets of his Belstaff. "It would be only logical for you to want to leave this place. You don't have any of the symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome. You've been kept in isolation for quite some time now so I doubt you're refusing out of loyalty to another patient. What is it? That painting under the bed? Bring it if you must, but—oh. _Oh."_ Sherlock's tone changed again, softening from annoyed to something almost akin to understanding, dangerously close to empathy for the self-proclaimed sociopath. "You think this is another of his mind games," he stated flatly, scowling. "You're afraid of failing the test, worried about what he'll do if you fail."

John looked ready to either gag or throttle someone, disturbed to his core that Sherlock was probably right, saddened that this innocent couldn't even trust help when it arrived.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but closed it without saying anything, considering his words for a moment before trying again. "I cannot force you to believe us. You're fairly clever. Whatever evidence I provide to vouch for us, you can easily explain away. I believe all that John and I are left with is sincerity, unfortunately. We wish very much to see Lamb put behind bars. Actually, that may not be quite true." He glanced at John, eyes glinting. "Judging by the tension in John's neck and jaw, and the repeated flexing of his left hand, I'd have to say that John would much rather maim Lamb than have him arrested. We would also like to help you. Whether or not you believe us, that is the truth. Now," he straightened his shoulders and removed his right hand from his pocket, extending it in Ella's direction, "will you come with us?"

The girl's eyes narrowed, wariness etched across her features. She examined Sherlock much like he examined corpses and suspects when he was trying to ferret the truth out from among the lies. Sherlock met her gaze and their eyes locked, blue-gray orbs cool and calm met fiery, questioning green ones. Finally, Ella nodded once and stepped forward, taking Sherlock's hand. Tiny fingers, thin and delicate, wrapped around his much larger, elegant hand, gripping them with the ferocity of a drowning man grabbing hold of a life preserver.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for all of the reviews. I really appreciate each and every one. Enjoy this chapter!**

Sherlock allowed Ella to do all of the actual handholding. Not his area after all. In an instant he noted and cataloged the features of the little hand in his, mapping out the slight calluses on the edges of the pads of her thumb and ring finger in his mind, mind flipping through possible causes. A paint brush, most likely of cheap make and material, rougher than the finer tools preferred by artists, but regularly used enough to create calluses. Scars, too, presented themselves to his touch. Defensive wounds across the back of the hand, making little, seam-like ridges across her knuckles. Broken glass had split the skin of her palms. Irregularly edged and deep, that scar was a few years old. He filed away the information without comment, merely glancing down at the barefoot child beside him.

"Time to go," Sherlock announced, making for the door. They made it as far as the threshold before there was resistance beside him, Ella was hesitating a step behind. He frowned and gave a long-suffering sigh when the girl opened her mouth but closed it again without speaking, eyes locked on the floor. "The painting, John," he said. "Under the bed, between the box spring and the second supporting slat from the left. Do hurry," he drawled.

The child relaxed fractionally, shaking her hair out of her face so that she could glance over at John. Seeing the eight-by-ten canvas in the doctor's hands seemed to free her feet. Finally they were leaving the horrid blank room.

"Here you go," John said gently, offering the painting to Ella.

The girl eyed John warily, hesitating before quickly snatching the painting with her free hand and hugging it to her chest.

John fell into stride beside his two companions, alert and ready for danger as they traverse the long hallway to the stairs. Ella stayed a little closer to Sherlock, green eyes flitting between Sherlock and John and dancing all over the hall, gaze pausing on the door to Lamb's office a few times.

"He's gone out," Sherlock said. "How long is he usually away for? There was a clock by the door in your room. How long between his visits?" he asked in the same hurrying way he plies Lestrade for tedious but necessary information at crime scenes.

Ella remained silent for a moment, surprised at being addressed. "Uh, I don't know," she said finally.

Sherlock yanked open the door to the stairwell.

"Let me go first," John said, cutting ahead of Sherlock and Ella and stepping down onto the first concrete stair. One hand on the metal railing, he leans over the edge to get a good look at the stairs below. "Clear."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Sherlock demanded, as they followed John down the stairs. The stairwell was filled with the muffled sounds of expensive leather soles and cheap rubber ones scuffing concrete. Ella's bare feet made no sound at all. Her breathing on the other hand became increasingly rapid and ragged as they neared the lower floors.

"I don't know," she snapped, brows pinched and pale pink lips pursed. "He just comes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "You can read a clock, can't you? Surely you're education can't be _that _lacking."

"I can tell time," she said a little indignantly. "It's the clock. The clock is wrong," Ella told him with feeling. "Sometimes," she added a little less certainly.

Sherlock recalled the clock on the wall in Ella's room, the position of it's hands. He calculated the amount of time that had passed. "What's the time?" he asked John.

Several steps ahead, John paused, pulling out his phone and consulting the screen. "Eleven twenty-one. Why?"

"The clock in her room was well past twelve," Sherlock told John. "How often does he change the clock?" he asked Ella. "Daily?"

"Sometimes twice," Ella answered.

They were at the second floor landing now. John had cautiously opened the door a crack and was checking the hallway beyond. "Clear," he said, opening the door further and entering. "Let's hurry, yeah?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock said, stepping swiftly through the door.

Ella practically had to jog to keep up with the lanky detective's lengthy stride.

Pulling to a stop in front of the laundry room's door, John opened the door and ushered his friend and their charge through. As the last of Sherlock's coat fluttered over the threshold the sound of footsteps could be heard. John groaned quietly, bemoaning their luck. "Move," he ordered in a whisper. A man, obviously an orderly judging by his scrubs, appeared at the end of the hall.

"Hey!" shouted the orderly. "Stop! What are you doing here?" he ran towards the laundry room.

"Things are a bit not good, Sherlock," John said calmly. He pulled the door shut behind himself and grabbed a broom, shoving it through the handle to bar the door and buy them a little time. "We need to leave. _Now_."

Ella's eyes were wide, green irises rimmed in panic-stricken white. "He's going to kill me," she nearly sobbed. Her fingernails bit into Sherlock's hand. "He said he would," she said, oddly regaining her composure. "He told me not to try to leave," she continued in a quiet, eerie calm, eyes glazed. "Dave told me what would happen." Acceptance colored her words, the certainty in them was chilling. She pulled her hand out of Sherlock's and hugged her painting to her chest with both arms.

John paused in his efforts to barricade the door against the large orderly outside it. "Sherlock, they'll be at the window if we don't hurry," he said, forcing himself to triage the situation. The grim reality was that the more time they wasted trying to reassure Ella, the more likely it would be that they would be caught and made liars anyway.

"Watch the child," Sherlock ordered, climbing through the window and quickly disappearing. An instant later the sound of grass crunching could be heard along with a quiet _oof._ "Send her down," Sherlock called up.

The first orderly had been joined by another. Together they were yanking on the door and stressing John's barricades. The broom sticks that had been hastily shoved into the handle to keep the door from opening were bending and groaning under the pressure. It was only a matter of time before they snapped and the large men on the other side got through.

"Sorry," John said, abandoning the door and grabbing Ella under her arms. He tried to be as gentle as he could in such a hurry. He scooped her up, making sure her feet cleared the window before he began lowering her down.

Startled, frightened, and disliking being manhandled, Ella squirmed and fought, managing to bite John on the arm before he dropped her. She cried out as she fell, clutching her only possession as tightly as she could and shutting her eyes.

"I've got you," Sherlock said. His dispassionate baritone in her ear as she found herself rather roughly plunked down into his arms. He held her tight, one arm under her knees and the other supporting her back.

John made the jump out of the window with a little less of the catlike grace of Sherlock, giving the ground a solid thump as he landed, crunching grass beneath his feet. He grunted. "Alright?" he asked Sherlock.

"Fine. We're both fine." said Sherlock, turning away from the mental health facility and heading rapidly back the way they'd come. A cab waited for them in a car park not too far away.

The wind ruffled Ella's wild blond curls. It felt cool on her heated cheeks. She opened her eyes, fully expecting to find herself back in her room. But the moon, crescent though it was, shone down on her, gently illuminating her surroundings. She was outside. There was grass below her and the black sky above her with its pinpricks of light. Trees were ahead of them and not too far off. Sighing a little, she ventured a glance over Sherlock's shoulder. There was her prison, glowing white in the moonlight, imposing and cold. It was getting farther away with every one of Sherlock's long steps. She was being carried away. She was finally free.

Adrenaline abandoned her. Exhaustion numbed her. Her mind—that uncontrollable thing that ran rampant at all times—stuttered to a stop and fell silent. Whatever came next, this moment was good.

She was vaguely aware of Sherlock and John talking. Alarm bells should have been ringing. She should have been kicking and thrashing and biting, trying to get away, trying to flee, but she couldn't. Darkness was creeping in on her vision and her head felt terribly light. And then she felt nothing at all.


	4. Chapter 4

First of all this isn't a update. This is a notice. For the month of November I probably won't be updating because I am participating in NaNoWriMo again this year. Normal updates will resume in December.

Secondly:

Today is Orphan Sunday.

In case you haven't noticed, Orphans are important to me. As the aunt of eight adopted children (1 from Russia, 4 from Ukraine, and 3 locally) and the friend of many adoptive families and children, this is close to my heart. This isn't about statistics or faceless causes and slogans. This is personal.

Ella's story may be exaggerated-An orphanage would be far more likely than an asylum-but it isn't entirely unrealistic But people like Dave do exist and they do hurt children like Ella. The issues that Ella struggles with are common to many orphans, especially those with attachment issues like her.

If you would normally read my latest chapter, please consider sparing 27 minutes for this video: http(colon, slash, slash)vim eo(slash) 78005649 The video is titled: You Will Be Found

Thank you!


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